


All Or Nothing

by sadieb798



Series: The Start of Something [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Communication, Emotional Shit, F/M, Interlude, M/M, Multi, POV Sherlock Holmes, Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Pre-The Sign of Three, Sherlock is a big bag of dicks, Sherlock series 3, The Start of Something Series, Think of it as an interlude, and John is pissed still, and some swearing, at last there's talking, of sorts, sort of, talking it out, there's a lot of shouting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We both love and want you. When it comes to you, it’s either all or nothing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me on this! I promise it was never my intention to leave this so long without updating; I had a big ol' case of writer's block, coupled with a looooot of family drama, and some personal self-crippling doubt about my life that kept me occupied. I missed these guys so much, that it's a relief to be back. So thank you so much for your patience, I'm sorry I was such a dick.

** All Or Nothing **

 

It didn’t take Sherlock long to find John. He was a bit disappointed by that, to be honest. 

After all, John is his conductor of light. He was there to act as the orchestrator of Sherlock’s genius in times when the clues and deductions were far too overwhelming and Sherlock couldn’t align them in proper order to make sense of them yet. Then John would be there to question, inspire, and be the sounding-board God--if there was one--intended him to be until the case was solved. Yet despite being the proverbial lightning trapped inside a bottle, or perhaps _because_ of it, John Watson was a very predictable person. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have found this trait excruciatingly dull, and wouldn't have given a second thought toward the doctor, had it not been for the fact that John was a contradiction trapped inside the body of a small man.

But this was especially true when it came to John’s habits. Like the rest of humanity, when John was angry he would retreat to a special place he had in order to avoid people. This was as opposed to the places John normally frequented when he was feeling sociable, sexually frustrated, or especially when he felt overwhelmed by Sherlock (and in the detective's opinion, needed space to reinsert himself with the idiots of the world). The place John would go to when he was angry was strictly solitary; where he could be in almost complete isolation from the world itself. 

That place was not the gym, nor was it any other place where it was expected for someone to release their internalised frustrations.

John, despite being an ex-army doctor trained in military combat, and a crack shot with an encyclopedic knowledge on human anatomy and biology was, astonishingly enough,  _not_ a violent person.

Of course he had terrific bouts of anger, and would almost lose complete control of his emotions when he allowed his anger to get the better of him. But Sherlock counted it as a beneficial resource to have, especially in times where they'd get themselves into tight spots and John needed to get them out. Despite all this, John's wont when it came to violence was only to use it as a very last resource when all other options had been exercised and exhausted. But whenever John and he weren’t in tight situations and were instead having a vicious row, instead of physically lashing out at Sherlock like he could tell John so clearly wanted to do, John's preferred method was to walk away rather than engage. 

This would always amaze Sherlock to absolutely no end, as growing up he had often done far less and would _still_ invoke the wrath of his fellow classmates. This of course had prompted Sherlock to launch an experiment to see just how far he could push John before _something_  happened _._ He learnt his lesson the hard way after the incident with the fingers in the toaster, (coupled with the mold he’d decided to grow on the kitchen walls). _That_ had resulted in a vicious shouting match that ended with John storming out and spending nearly two _months_ at his sister’s house. When they’d made amends with each other and John came back to Baker Street, only then had Sherlock been able to see how truly affected he was by staying at his sister's and watching her downward spiral into her alcoholism.

After that Sherlock vowed _never_ to drive John to that point ever again.

The only reason Sherlock was sure that John wasn’t seeking refuge at his alcoholic sister’s again this time round was because now he had Mary. Him having Mary meant that they had a flat of their own that was far closer to Baker Street than Harry’s was to town. But Sherlock was positive he wouldn’t go there either, due to the fact that a) John had his habits, and b) nothing broke John from his habits except the rare, debilitating pain in his shoulder that would temporarily bring back the psychosomatic pains in his leg, or a thunderstorm that forced him to stay indoors.

It helped that this was the perfect night to go out for a long walk in order to vent out any animosity one had for one's best friend and fiancée. It was a cool night, with the moon shining brilliantly overhead.  So it was that ten minutes after he'd set out, Sherlock spotted John in Regent's Park; just where he'd expected the doctor to be. He stopped just short of reaching the doctor in order to read his mood. John sat with his back to him on the hard-backed bench underneath one of the mighty trees in the park; its large shade shrouding John in darkness. Sherlock could clearly see that though some tension still lined his shoulders and back as he watched the swans glide over the misty water, his posture was not rigid with fury anymore, but slightly eased. As though resigned in his current mood.

Sherlock slowly crept closer to the man, heart thumping in his chest as his brain raced like a locomotive to conduct at least seventy-one different scenarios and his response to all seventy-one.

He stood slightly to the left of the bench, waiting for John to notice his presence. It didn’t take him long; in fact he was pleased to note that it took the man in question less than .13 seconds before John’s dark eyes darted to the side, and caught sight of the detective. He snorted humorlessly.

“Didn’t take you long,” John said, his breath escaping his lips in big puffs of white mist.

“Is this seat taken?” Sherlock asked, after a beat.  John gave an impassive shrug in response. Sherlock sat down, allowing a few meager inches of space to separate them--it may as well have been a canyon with all the tension in the air.

They were silent for a long while as they continued watching the swans. The only sounds that kept the night from being completely still was a combination of the leaves rustling above their heads, and the gentle gurgling of the lake. Sherlock wondered, as the nighttime breeze took on a bite, _when_ John would deem it acceptable to speak. Sherlock drew the collar of his coat tighter around his throat when said breeze brushed the back of his neck. He cursed himself for not thinking to grab his scarf on the way out of the flat and scowled at the tranquil swans. Beside him, John shivered microscopically. Sherlock wondered idly if he could pull out his phone and answer a few emails or play fruit ninja to pass the time--but then thought better of it as John would probably find that not good, and given his already precarious state, perhaps it wouldn't be sensible to pour a gallon of petrol onto a small flame.

Then again, he could refuse to talk at all. Thus defeating the purpose in the detective seeking him out for a--whatever this is meant to be.  It was just as he was weighing his options, John expelled a shuddering breath and spoke again.

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” John asked, getting right to the point, which Sherlock appreciated. But the detective didn’t know what the best answer for that would be. Regardless, he barely gave the question a second of hesitation before answering truthfully: “Mary thought I was the better candidate to retrieve you.”

John gave a bitter laugh. “Of course she did,” he replied.

They continued to sit in silence. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock stole a glance of the man beside him. John’s expressive face and dark hair was painted by the misty water's glimmering reflection of the moon. His chill was easily discernible by the flush in his cheeks and his reddened nose. His eyes looked dark in contrast to the pale moonlight and even though his anger had somewhat subsided, they were still slightly hardened. Sherlock couldn't help but think how achingly beautiful he looked sitting there next to him; as though he were a fallen angel burdened by all the pain in the world.

Sherlock immediately shook his head and turned away to think properly, frowning as he mentally kicked himself for the nonsensical drivel he just spewed out. That was utterly uncalled for! John's romanticism _must_ be getting to him! Before, he'd never have allowed prose to distort his observations. Then all these... _feelings_  that he'd developed for his friend began to burrow underneath his skin, take root and started to grow with Mary's encouragement. Dammit he was doing it _again. How_ did people live like this? 

He scratched his nose in frustration as he thought about the current situation they found themselves in. He tried to see it from John’s perspective, relishing in the mental exercise. It was never Sherlock's intention to hurt John. Though surely, John knew he did everything selfishly and without a care as to what another person’s feelings might be--even in instances when the person in question _was_ John. Additionally, John had to know that he very rarely regretted any of his actions. Even after faking his death and lying to John about his continued good health, and after seeing how much it upset him, Sherlock still did not regret any of the actions he took in order to save his best friend's life. 

Sherlock thought back to the night of his return. He had told John the truth about trying to get in touch--but when finger met keyboard, or when he put pen to paper, the words just wouldn’t come. How do you tell the only friend you’ve ever really had that you’d faked your death for their sake? The truth was that he couldn’t. No matter how good the words had sounded in his head, or how much he decided he would explain in one letter, he knew they just wouldn’t be enough to truly encompass how he felt, or really explain _why_ without having more questions arise and more explanations follow. And when he had realised that he really wanted to answer those questions John would have face-to-face, it had changed Sherlock's attitudes about staying alive.

It was while he was thinking this over that Sherlock suddenly said, “I’m not sorry.”

The answering silence was deafening; not even the lake burbled, and the leaves stood still. John took a very deep, shuddering breath that somehow managed to shake the Earth. Sherlock could practically hear him mentally count down from twenty to keep himself from punching Sherlock in the face.

“What?” John asked through slightly grit teeth.

Sherlock took another breath. “I’m not sorry. For any of it.”

A raised eyebrow came first. A head tilt in curiosity, with a question of “No?” came second.

“No.” Sherlock affirmed, his breath escaping in a misty billow. 

"Not even about conspiring with Mary in the first place?"

"No. I don't." Sherlock replied. At John's blank expression, he explained. "Because she was the first person to see the potential of it all. And if it hadn’t been for her--I never would have realised how completely and ridiculously in love with you I am.”

John fell silent.

“But she said you loved her too?” he asked with, Sherlock was pleased to note, some astonishment in his voice.

He nodded. “And I do,” the detective replied. “I was embarrassingly slow on the uptake, frankly. But then again you know relationships aren't my area. The simple fact is, when she came into my life, so did you.” He paused a moment before wrinkling his nose, as he tried balancing out what he'd just said on a scale. “More or less.”

John was silent again, ruminating on his words. Sherlock took another breath, his hands in his pockets as he stared down at the buttons of his coat. He knew it was either now or never for him to set the facts align, and he couldn't bare to see how John would react.

“We want this to work,” Sherlock started without any preamble. John groaned and shook his head.

“It _can’t_ , Sherlock,” he said with frustration, as though this was a difficult maths equation that he just wasn't getting no matter how many times Sherlock explained it.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked exasperatedly, breaking his reserve and turning to look at his companion. “Why _can’t_ it work? You’ve already expressed an interest in us both, and we’ve already enthusiastically expressed how brilliant we think the idea of us with you is--what else could _possibly_ be making you hesitant about this?”

“Well for one, you both fucked around behind my back,” John deadpanned.

“Oh we’re back to that now, are we?” the detective asked derisively.

“Of course we’re bloody back to that!” cried John, turning completely around in his seat to face him. “Look,” he started patiently, expelling a heavy sigh. “I know you don’t have that many friends, so you don’t get how this works. But even _you_ can see how completely fucked up that was!” 

Sherlock remained silent, and John could only stare at him before continuing, his voice lowered almost in a whisper. “I’m not gonna lie, Sherlock, it hurts. It fucking hurts a _lot.”_ He huffed, his breath coming out in wisps.

Sherlock expelled a shivering breath, though whether it was due to the weather or to the conversation, he couldn’t be sure. He _was_ sure, however that John would not like what he had to say next.

“It was for science,” he replied, slowly and reverently.

John stared at him. His look was one of perfect skepticism; down to the raised eyebrow and the look of absolute incredulousness in his eyes. “ 'For science'? ” he repeated dryly, clearly not believing the words, though testing them out all the same.

Sherlock nodded. “Just to see if it would be possible for me to engage sexually with her. Mary already knew I could be aroused by her, but didn’t know if I would find sex with her appealing.”

Sherlock let the 'g' roll off his tongue, and shut his mouth; purposefully holding back further information. He knew that it was just a matter of time before John’s curiosity won out over his anger. The doctor in question scoffed with disgust at himself before asking impatiently, “And the other four times?”

Despite being pleased by being proved correct, Sherlock did not smirk. He opted instead to keep his expression a mask of nonchalance as he faced John. The man's dark eyes were intense and his face flushed by the cold, but there was no denying the curiosity that was clearly written in the lines of his face.

“And I do,” he replied with a small, suggestive smile. A moment of flighty, annoying fantasies of John's pleased reactions by this revelation distracted Sherlock. So much so, that when his companion's actual reaction appeared, it completely threw the detective momentarily off balance. A frown pulled down John's face, and the anger in his eyes was only fueled; burning those fantasies like lit matches to butterfly wings.

“Well that’s just _great,”_ he said loudly, his voice dripping in sarcasm as he scowled and turned away to look back at the lake. “Just _great_. Good for you Sherlock. Good to know you enjoy sex. Congratulations on getting laid so many times.”

Sherlock blinked, confused before going over the conversation with a fine toothed comb. He shut his eyes as though pained, and growled in frustration. He didn’t know if he wanted to kiss the man or strangle him. Surely _one_ of those would be enough to put some sense back into his brain, making him see how ridiculous all this fuss was, how it was becoming too cold, and that it was obviously time to go home.

“You’re missing the _point!”_ he exclaimed. John's obtuseness to the importance of what he'd just said physically pained him. Though whether it was purposeful or not, Sherlock wasn't sure anymore.

“And what _is_ the point, Sherlock?” John asked, whirling back around to face him. They were both curled towards one another now, a good few inches of tension still dividing them. “Huh? What is the point? Because I sure as _hell_ am _not_ getting it!”

“The point is that even though we both enjoyed having sex together--and I can assure you, we _did_ \--Mary and I mutually agreed that we didn’t want to anymore unless we could have it with _you!”_ Sherlock yelled fiercely.

The silence was so unexpected that it practically dropped on them with a resounding bang; like the sound of a piano falling from a three-storey house. Never in Sherlock’s life will he ever forget the look on John’s face. He looked as though he’d been slapped: it was a perfect mixture of incredulousness and surprise. His dark eyes were wide, and the flush on his face was unmistakable, but definitely not caused by the cold alone.

“We both meant what we said back there,” Sherlock started quietly, taking opportunity of John’s stunned silence in order to speak further. “We both love and want you. When it comes to you, it’s either all or nothing.”

“You’ve stopped having sex?” John asked in awe.

Sherlock stared at him, stunned. “ _That’s_ what you got out of all of that?” he asked, exasperated. He scoffed at the cold night air. “ _Yes,_ we’ve stopped having sex, alright? We both realised it wouldn’t be fair to you, and agreed that it would be far better if you were there _with_ us--so we stopped!”

“It’s just,” John said, turning away and blinking the incredulity out of his eyes. Sherlock glanced back at him. “If you were both lying to me about _this,”_ he gesticulated a round circle, as though to encapsulate their entire situation down to one shape. “It made me wonder what _else_ you've been lying to me about.”

When John looked up at him for an answer, Sherlock shrugged.

“Nothing else,” He replied. John continued to stare at him, waiting. When Sherlock didn’t respond readily, John scoffed in disbelief.

“Answer me this then,” he began, turning back around to face him fully. Sherlock stared at him, waiting. John's mouth pinched to steady himself, before he started again. “Was Mary really over for dance lessons? Or for wedding planning? Was any of that even remotely true?”

Silence filled the night. Sherlock knew in his hesitation to answer, he was already guilty.

“Not entirely,” he finally admitted with some chagrin.

“Right. Goodbye Sherlock,” John said, making a move to stand. Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat. In a moment of blind panic, he shot his arm out, quick as a garden snake, and grabbed a fistful of John's coat-sleeve to stop him.

“John,” he said desperately as he stared up at the man, who refused to meet his eyes. “That’s the truth.”

John didn’t respond, but he wasn’t pulling away either. So Sherlock continued; resolute in having his say. “It was always the plan for us to bring you into the loop, and so for months we’ve been trying to figure out what the best way to do that would be. Mary would come by and we’d test my limits with her, while talking over a plan for how we could get you involved.”

When it was clear John wasn’t going to give him any sort of sign that he was listening, Sherlock took a deep breath and went on.

“It was code-named Project John,” he said. John’s head snapped down to look at him, finally meeting his gaze with eyes wide in realisation. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment. “And so we eventually realised that the best approach would be one that involved actions, not words. That was what tonight was all about.” He glanced sheepishly away for a moment, before looking back up and meeting his friend's gaze. “Hence the dancing.”

John could only stare down at him. “And all the touching?” he asked finally.

Sherlock smirked with some humor. “I was trying to romance you,” he admitted.

“ 'Romance me'? ” John repeated, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock huffed indignantly, offended that the man hadn't clearly realised his intentions for what they were before.

“I don’t follow.”

“What part of ‘I love you’ did you  _not_  understand?” he grumbled in frustration, his grip tightening briefly before drawing his hand away. They stared at each other a moment longer, John clearly confused and Sherlock frustrated that it wasn't obvious. “I was led to believe that that was what people _did_ with the object of their affection!" he explained, practically spelling it out. "They took them dancing! Lit candles! Took them out on dates! That sort of thing!”

“You want to take me out on a _date?”_ John asked incredulously, as though the idea of it were absurd.

“We were already dating!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“How do you figure _that?”_ John raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest as he regarded his friend.

“We like each other!” Sherlock explained, calling forth a memory of when John went out with that doctor and had been explaining--sarcastically at the time--what a date was. “We go out and have fun together! That’s a date!”

_“Those weren’t dates, Sherlock!”_ John yelled, dropping his hands and glaring down at his friend. "I would _know_ if I were taking you out on dates!"

"Well what were they then?" He asked in frustration.

"I don't know!" the doctor exploded. "Stake-outs! Cases! Crime solving! That sort of thing!"

"There was food--"

_"Both_ parties are meant to eat in those instances in order for it to qualify as a _date,"_ John explained in an embarrassed rush.

"But we still had _fun!"_

"That doesn't mean I would classify them as _dates,_ Sherlock!"

“Well then, would you?” Sherlock asked.

“Would I what?” John cried in puzzlement.

“Go on a date with me!” Sherlock loudly reiterated.

John was flabbergasted. “Sherlock,” he groaned, closing his eyes tightly as he strode toward the edge of the waterbank. “It’s not that _simple_ \--” He started again, turning so that he could face his friend.

“Why not?” the man-child exclaimed petulantly.

_“Because I’m getting married!”_ John yelled.

“So the wedding’s still on?” Sherlock inquired, dropping the volume of his voice and letting surprise taint his tone.

“It was never off!” bellowed John, as though he were trying to get the message across to the trees’ branches above their heads.

“You weren’t going to call it off?” The detective quirked a questioning eyebrow. “Even though your fiancée slept with the best man?”

“Of course not!” John practically screamed in return.

“Why not?”

“Because I _love_ her!” John exclaimed, absolutely livid at Sherlock. “Alright?! Because I bloody _love_ her!  Even if she slept with everyone in the entire _world;_ even if she was as promiscuous as The Woman--I wouldn't _care!_ I’d _still_  marry her!" 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his eyes fixed intently on John.

John's eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. _"Why?"_ he scoffed. _"Why?!_  Because she's _extraordinary!_  Because she's clever, and fun, and because she brought me back to life after I lost my best friend! Because she made me feel _human_ again when I couldn't even contemplate it!  I need her! She's as necessary to me as air--as _breathing!_ And i t's because I _need_ her, that I _can’t_ imagine a life _without_ her!”

He ended that statement with a heavy breath, as though he’d just finished a long and trying marathon. There was a long beat of silence wherein John took a deep, steadying breath. He closed his eyes, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and continued, in a gentler voice than he'd used before. “And even though you drive me absolutely 'round the bend, and drag me off into all kinds of trouble--”

“Only because you insist on coming along,” Sherlock interjected.

“-- _despite_ all of that,” John cut him off, his voice rising. He narrowed his eyes briefly at the detective for his interruption. Then he expelled heavily again, before resuming. “I already _had_ a life without you in it, and it almost killed me." He opened his eyes and stared resolutely at his friend. "I lost you once, and I don't intend to lose you again, no matter what you do.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

John laughed bitterly at the question. “Because I need you too,” he said with absolute sincerity.

Sherlock stared at John a long time, observing and noticing once again. John stood with a posture that was straight, not in anger anymore, but in preparation. As though Sherlock were about to run, and he was preparing to follow. The hardness in his eyes had disappeared, leaving in its wake a look of affection that practically shone in his face like the sun (there he goes again, speaking in prose. Is that what happens to someone when they fall in love? Inconclusive; must allow further observation).

Most importantly of all, though, was that John looked unwavering in his emotions and mindset. As though no matter what anyone said to him now--whether about Sherlock’s own oddities, Mary’s unconventional ideas about love and sex, or any untoward opinions they might have about the relationship the three of them shared, and about John’s mental state to accept this--John was fully prepared to deck them in the face in defending their honour, and carry on as is. 

And it was for that moment right there, that Sherlock knew why he was meant to be out here. He understood now why Mary had sent him to retrieve John in the first place. Because she understood that he needed to see this for himself, so that any doubts either he or John might have had about the nature of their relationship, they would be expelled by the end of this conversation.

He never felt more love for her than he did at that moment: when John’s eyes stared at him, and were filled with a becoming mixture of affection, bewilderment and resolution.

That was his favorite expression on John’s face.

Sherlock smirked in triumph before at last getting up.

“Idiot,” John muttered with a shake of his head. A rich and vibrant warmth that was nothing like the high he got from a case, or from his old cocaine habit, flooded Sherlock's insides. Though whether the doctor was talking about himself or Sherlock, the detective wasn't sure. Not that he gave a damn in the first place.

“So what’s the problem?” he asked again, his voice rumbling like far-distant thunder in the stillness. He walked over to John and stood in front of him. “I love you, and you love me. We love her, and she loves us. We all need each other.” The corners of his mouth quirked upwards. “Simple.”

John snorted with an eyeroll. “Right,” he replied. “I just want you to know that this was the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had with you.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered, continuing to stare in undisguised fascination.

There was another stretch of silence before John spoke again, almost in a whisper.

“Just because I’ve cooled off, doesn’t mean I’m not still bloody pissed at the two of you,” John informed him sternly.

“Yes yes, I am appropriately chastened," Sherlock huffed with an accompanied eyeroll. "Lesson learnt. Never to repeat.” 

“Well,” John began, a slow grin beginning to spread across his face. The fire in his eyes as he met Sherlock’s had nothing to do with anger. “At least not without me.”

“Can we go home now?” Sherlock asked, not feeling the cold anymore but still wanting to go nonetheless.

“You bet your arse we’re going home,” John growled before he grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat, and pulled him into his space before kissing him fiercely on the mouth.

The kiss only lasted a few moments, but it was enough to jolt Sherlock into noticing everything about it: from the taste and condition of John’s lips, to Sherlock’s estimated number of partners the doctor had had prior based on how exceptional his kissing skill was, to his own short-lived reactions to the press of his lips. But it ended all too soon, not at all to Sherlock’s liking, and the doctor pulled away, a smug expression on his face as he met Sherlock’s befuddled one.

Then something extraordinary happened: John slapped him in the face.

Sherlock blinked, stunned, as he took stock of his pain. Which was about less than one percent.

“ _That’s_ for lying to me,” John said, poking a finger into his chest. Sherlock stared back at John; his face was resolute and he had his Captain expression on. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

Then the doctor walked around him and started off in the direction towards Baker Street.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock replied quietly before he turned and followed. Not quite how it usually goes, but he couldn't find it in himself to mind.

“Don’t think I didn’t see what you did there,” John said in amusement as he caught up with him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replied, knowing he wasn’t fooling him at all. John rolled his eyes as he began to walk away from the park, Sherlock trailing behind him.

“You know Mary’s going to be disappointed that we’d kissed and she wasn’t here to see it,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Shaddup,” John said, a smile curling the corners of his lips.

“Or what?” Sherlock asked, amused.

“Or I might just do it again,” John replied.

His eyes sparkled with so much warmth and promise, that it made Sherlock’s stomach do a series of backflips.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I have never been to England, so have never visited Regent's Park. This was pure imagination (with the help of some pictures on google). So if I get anything wrong: keep it to yourself. ;)  
> This was so not how it was supposed to go. It only turned out otherwise because the characters took over. Have a happy Valentine's Day--in whatever way you choose to celebrate it--and stayed tuned as we return to our regularly scheduled Mary's POV!


End file.
